Riddles
by Richard Bachman
Summary: (PART 5 is UP!) Tired of his feelings for the Slayer, Spike ventures to Africa to seek help from a demon, who forces him to take a trip down to memory lane. As the story unfolds, we get to know the man William was before he was reborn into darkness.
1. Tresspassing

1 Riddles  
  
Summary: Tired of his feelings for the Slayer, Spike ventures to Africa to seek help from a ancient demon, who forces him to take a trip down to memory lane. Feeding on the emotions Spike's memories evoke, the demon grows slowly stronger.  
  
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy are the creators of the Buffy universe and Spike. Please stop using my pretty Spike as a bloody punching bag!  
  
Rating: R, bad language, violence.  
  
Note: based on spoilers - Spike goes to Africa to get his chip out, and probably doesn't return till next season. Just wanted to tell the tale of what happened to him in sunny Africa. Story told from his pov so it could be a bit confusing.  
  
By Richard Bachman  
  
Dedicated to all the Williams who are desperately trying to hold on to their Slayers.  
  
  
  
2 Part 1; Trespassing  
  
Have I ever told someone about my past, how my life was before I was turned? I'm sure I haven't. Not my totally dysfunctional vampire family from hell, not Angelus, my grandpoof Sire that I've detested and hated with every fibre of my being. He would have laughed at my weaknesses and ridiculed my insecurities, tortured me with it, increasing my anger, deepening my wounds. I've rather been skinned alive and or trusted my genitals in the hands of a Fyarl demon holding a nutcracker then tell him. It would probably have been bloody less painful as well.  
  
I also have never told Dru anything. I loved Dru, my dark, dramatic queen of mad nightmare visions. But she wouldn't have understood any of it. Her mind was too clouded with her own madness of the girl she was once was and the lives that once were. I guess I didn't want to mess her up even more then she already was.  
  
I didn't even tell the Slayer.  
  
Though she had come to me one night, rushing into my humble little crypt with the determination of an attacking sheepdog. Before I could reply with a sharp remark, she was banging my head against the walls and twisting my arm with such force that I could almost feel the bones crack.  
  
What do you want? I've asked her. Trying to sound as pissed off as possible, but failing, of course, pathetically since I secretly was too overjoyed to see her here, wanting something from me. Needing me.  
  
Seeing me.  
  
Her cold, harsh look softened slightly as she blinked with her eyes and responded.  
  
"Slayers. You killed two of them."  
  
"You re gonna show me how."  
  
So I dragged her to the Bronze, telling her that I was feeling peckish and needed at least a pint to smooth down my throat before I was willing to tell the story. I made her buy me beer, fags and plates full of those bloody awful spicy buffalo wings. I smoked. I talked. I annoyed her till she gave me that killer look and trademark frown of hers and started talking in that nasal sounding nagging voice. I did everything to postpone the moment of actually giving her what she wanted. Holding her in my good company as long as possible.  
  
I suppose, in my own sick and twisted mind, I kind off confused that cold and emotionless business transaction of us with our first proper date.  
  
My Slayer, of course, did not suffer of this kind of delusions.  
  
With hard words and empty threats I was urged to get on and start telling this story of my past, since the slayers I've slain were (may I say a proud) part of my history. She didn't particularly ask about how or when I was turned, or even who had sired me. Figured that at least she would be interested in where his nancy ex boyfriend knew me from, but she didn't even give me the slightest sign of interest. However, I've felt the urge to tell her anyway. I wanted her to know, I wanted her to get to know the man I was before I became the monster that she despised so deeply. The villain beyond redemption that she and her friends didn't even think worthy of dusting. I wanted her to meet William, the Bloody awful poet, the pathetic social reject, the man without a spine, a boy consumed by ridiculous hopes and dreams.  
  
A good man.  
  
God knows why but I needed her to at least know that he had ever existed, although the man I once was, is gone forever.  
  
As I sat there at the other side of the table, staring into those mesmerizing blue eyes of hers. Judging eyes. Eyes full of expectations of the horrors my mouth and words would bring to her knowledge; stories of carnage, stories of death, stories of a demon wandering the earth without remorse. Her lips were already pulled in a sharp corner of disapproval, not the faintest of smiles glimmering through her cold hostility. As I sat there, I realized that I couldn't tell her the truth about my past. The truth was too far away from her reality. It wouldn't fit. She would never believe me.  
  
That's why I lied to her instead.  
  
I told her that William the Bloody was a murderer and a thief, exactly the type of monster she expected him to be. And as my story continued, describing one colourful and bloodstained lie after the other, her tense body relaxed a little. The harsh look and deep wrinkles in her pretty little face disappeared. She lowered her emotional defences, and all of her mistrust melted slowly away. I knew then, that she was very relieved, that she was content with the lies that I told her. She didn't need to know the truth about the monster, how human it once was and how it had equalled her in every sense of morality and kindness in the past. Her world had been black and white for a very long time and she didn't need, didn't want it to change, for change meant that she herself had to change. My Slayer lacked and still lacks the strength to do just that.  
  
So you see, I really have never told anybody about my short and disappointing life as a mortal. That's why I was so pissed when you asked me to do just that. I didn't expect it. Yes, of course I knew that there would be a price to pay for the favour I was asking of you, nothing comes without a price and this counts double for a wish that requires the darkest of magic. I knew that it would be difficult, and it would not surprise me if I had to pay once again for my stupidity to follow my foolish dreams with my very own life. But, come on, why would an almighty and all knowing ancient uberdemon like you be even slightly interested in what kind of nancy boy this sad and dysfunctional vampire was before fate killed him off in an act of what I consider utter kindness? The thought alone makes me all giddy.  
  
However, I suppose you were indeed serious about your ridiculous request for you've locked me up in this sodding stinking cave for three days now. Three whole days! I'm bloody bored out of my bloody mind. Just you and me sitting in a circle drawn in the sand with a freaking fire in the middle that never seems to be getting tired of burning. The orange glow of the blazing flames is barely enough to illuminating your features, almost human, but with the unnatural pale skin and yellow eyes and pupils as narrow as slits, you are more like me and my kind then the happy sun worshipping buggers who are overflowing this planet. With your lean, feminine figure hunching close to the fire, you raise a hand and reach out to me through the flames. I expect not without a sense of sadistic amusement that your skin will start to burn, blacken and peel, but there is no smoke and the hungry flames seem unwilling to consume your demon flesh.  
  
Strange, but hey, I've seen weirder things happen.  
  
When you speak, your cracked, colourless lips stay closed.  
  
*Are you ready now for your first challenge, my darkness drawing friend?*  
  
I roll my eyes and tense the muscles in my legs and arms. I've got enough of this sodding ancient light show. I've been sitting her, with my legs crossed and my hands resting on my knees for so Godforsaken long that I've lost the feeling in all of my limps days ago. Oh, how I wish that I could just get off my ass and jump over to you to get my fangs imbedded into your thin, creepy little neck, to drain the life out and snap it like dry firewood. Of course I'm fully aware that you're powerful and all, otherwise I won't even be here in the first place, and I do know that your fragile appearance is very likely to be deceiving, but hey, I've never been a man of think first, act later. Just ask the slayer, she knows what I'm talking about.  
  
My muscles starts to cramp as I continue to struggle against the invisible retrains that you've put on me. Who am I kidding? I can't move. Not even lift a finger to scratch that madding itch on my nose. I'm frozen, on the spot, in the highly uncomfortable position that you've forced me into, sitting here like some sodding Hindu priest digesting a light meal of tofu. I feel my anger rise again till up to my throat, tasting like bitter bile. And you keep waving that fireproof hand at me. Slender, unnatural long fingers reaching into in the flames.  
  
"Yes!" I replied finally, more out of desperation of getting bored then out rage. "Yes, I'm ready! I'm bloody ready for about anything as long as it doesn't involve sitting still at one spot for an incredibly long time! Now, finally, get the bloody hell on with it!!"  
  
There is a long, awkward silence, as you finally get up from your position. You've been motionless for so long that I've started to believe that you've been put under a spell as well. You circle around the fire, pacing around me. Drawing closer with every step. Your yellow eyes are always fixed on mine. Never hesitating. As I stare back at those eyes, I can see together with the orange of the flames the image of a young man with coldblue eyes and bleached blond hair staring angrily back at me, reflecting in the blackness of your pupils.  
  
"My…my face." I stumble " I can see my face."  
  
A smile, as sharp and cold as that of a vein statue adorns your lips.  
  
* Yes, indeed. I can see you in my eyes. Why is that so remarkable, William?*  
  
"Because I'm a vampire, I'm not supposed to have a reflection. Vampires don't have souls to sustain a reflection."  
  
As I mention the word soul, my mind takes a quick trip down to memory lane and I was lying on the filthy ground again in the back street alley at that particular night. She was bending over me, her angry and frustrated face hovering above me like a malicious sun. Her fists made impact with my cheeks and nose and filled my mouth with the taste of blood.  
  
"You don't ... have a soul! There is nothing good or clean in you. You are dead inside! You can't feel anything real! I could never ... be your girl!"  
  
She was right you know. There is nothing clean or good in me. I'm not Angel, the Oops - I killed-and-tortured-people-just-for-the-sport-of-it-for- centuries-but-now-I'm- really-really- sorry Angel, All broody and soul having. I don't have a soul. I've lost it when I traded the life of a weak and pathetic lovesick poet with the undead life of a weak and pathetic lovesick vampire, and frankly, I've never mourned about that lost.  
  
Not until I fell in love with her.  
  
You grimace at me, as though you could feel the pain I feel when digging out these past nasties. I doubt you can really feel it, and if you indeed do I will certainly stake myself as soon as I can move again for letting you know how it felt. It's already too bloody embarrassing enough.  
  
* William. Listen to me.*  
  
I wish you would stop calling me William. I'm not William the Bloody awful poet anymore. I'm Spike the Bloody killer.  
  
* Listen to me. I want you to look into your past. Tell me what you've lost. Tell me what was no more after you were reborn as a vampire. Tell me what died with you that dark, Londen night.*  
  
I'm a bit confused, how could you know about Londen? I want to ask but as I open my mouth, no sound is produced. I move my lips and my tongue to form words, looking probably much like Harris last time when we went mute and his attempts to blame everything on me made him resemble an ugly type of blowfish gasping for air on dry land.  
  
A cold finger is pressed on my lips. Your radiant eyes are staring straight into my own, fire meeting ice.  
  
*Hush. Words are redundant William. Words can never show me how you really felt, what you've seen through your mortal eyes. Heard with your mortal ears. You came to me to ask from me a most precious gift. For this, I want to have a taste of the life you once have lived. I want to taste that light before I fall back into the darkness where you and I now belong. Come William, whisper your memories into my mind.*  
  
Your eyes mesmerize me, as her eyes always have when the harshness of hostility have melted away. I try to blink and move away from your stare, but I'm still frozen. And as I'm forced to look into those two radiant orbs, I become blinded by the light.  
  
TBC 


	2. Digging up the Past

1 Riddles  
  
Summary: Tired of his feelings for the Slayer, Spike ventures to Africa to seek help from a ancient demon, who forces him to take a trip down to memory lane. Feeding on the emotions Spike's memories evoke, the demon grows slowly stronger.  
  
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy are the creators of the Buffy universe and Spike. Please stop using my pretty Spike as a bloody punching bag!  
  
Spoilers: end S6.  
  
Rating: R, bad language, violence.  
  
Note: based on spoilers - Spike goes to Africa to get his chip out, and probably doesn't return till next season. Just wanted to tell the tale of what happened to him in sunny Africa. Story told from his pov so it could be a bit confusing.  
  
By Richard Bachman  
  
Dedicated to all the Williams who are desperately trying to hold on to their Slayers.  
  
  
  
2 Part 2; Digging up the past  
  
*Close your eyes William.*  
  
I do just that, and the radiance of your unnatural bright eyes is shut off from me completely, leaving me in my own private darkness.  
  
*Show me what you see.*  
  
I'm just about to pull my What The Fuck! face and tell you that I'm not sodding able to see anything with my eyes closed when a small light suddenly appears. It seems far away, and faint, still it seems as real as the stars in a night's sky. And then, it starts pulling nearer, as though I'm travelling trough a long, dark tunnel in which I can barely see the light at the end. I become curious of what I will find there, and even though I'm pretty sure that it is you who is guiding me, I need no more of encouragements to draw closer to it.  
  
*What is the first thing in your life that you can remember William?*  
  
*Show me*  
  
Snowflakes.  
  
I remember white, glittering snowflakes, delicate as ice flowers on the windows in winter, drifting down on an alien landscape. It created a hesitating blanket of white on a collection of pillars and stones, standing together in a strange formation, creating a ruin. In the middle was a statue, a lady with the face of a Goddess but with no arms. As the snow ceased to fall I was disappointed and I remember making it fall again. There was no magic involved, just those two clumsy little hands of mine, holding this miniature world upside down and back again to let the fake snow in the liquid sky to descend once more.  
  
A snow globe. Much bigger then those cheap plastic ones you see nowadays. Much heavier too; they were made of crystal clear glass in the Victorian age. My mommy never let me pick it up by my own. She would ask Sarah, the chambermaid or Katherine, my nurse to lift it up and shake the snow for me. She was afraid that I would break my fragile little toy. She was afraid that I myself would break.  
  
It wasn't fair.  
  
The snow globe was mine.  
  
My daddy gave it to me. Just before he went away again. I was crying because I didn't want him to leave. I nuzzled my tearstained face in his collar and made stains on his proper jacked. I remember that I was so close to him that all I could smell was his familiar scent, a mix of tobacco, leather and soap. He smiled at me, as I told him that I wanted to go with him. I wanted to go to where the white marble lady was standing, for my daddy had told me that it was there where he was going.  
  
"Of course you can come with me one day William. But not now. I want you to stay here and take care of your mother for me. Once again, after I'm gone, you'll be the master of the house, and that comes with certain responsibilities."  
  
My father looked fondly at me. I could see the reflection of a sad seven year old boy in his sky blue eyes.  
  
"Don't cry now William. I will be back before the end of October. Remember when that is, my boy? Remember what I've told you last time I went away?"  
  
I nodded hesitatingly.  
  
"That's when the first leaves of the oak trees start to fall."  
  
He gave me a sad but radiant smile. A smile only a father could give to his son. Great pride mixed with an incredible grief.  
  
"Exactly! Now give me a hug before mister Bannister decides he has waited long enough and takes off with the carriage without your old man here."  
  
I hugged him while fighting my tears. I was the man of the household now. I had to be strong for my mommy's sake. He kissed mommy goodbye and told her he would write to her as soon as he arrived. She nodded eagerly and whispered her last hurried words into his ears. She smiled but in her smile there was no happiness, only tears.  
  
He kissed her once again, placed his hat on his head, pulling the rim far over his eyes. He took his cane and suitcase and stepped out of the door into the wavering April sun.  
  
Then he was gone.  
  
I waited all spring and all summer. Sitting on the windowsill every morning. Watching the leaves on the old oak tree in our garden turn from pale green into a deep dark colour, forming a thick patch of foliage that covered the patio underneath in shadows. I thought about what my daddy would be doing in that strange and exotic land, so far away from home. Oh yes, he had shown me pictures of that place, when he was letting me sit on his lap and telling me stories in front of the fireplace on cold winter nights. Black and white landscapes of mountains, higher then any hills that I've seen before and more ferocious then lightning and thunder. My daddy told me that one of them was sleeping, a giant not to be disturbed. Terrible things will and have happened when he awakes. At the foot of that dangerous mountain was a long lost city. It had once been beautiful, with busy streets, limestone houses and marble palaces. There were parks and fountains and statues of Gods. My daddy worked there. He read the words that were left behind in stones and walls by the people who have once lived there, but were now gone. The mountain killed them. He stirred from his deep slumber, roaring in anger. He smouldered everything with a rain of burning ashes and rivers of fire. When he finally got tired, and went back to sleep, the city was no more, and the people forgot about it as it was buried deep under the ground, far away from the sun. Then, one day, my daddy found it. He dusted off the grey ashes that covered the roads, houses and statues. He read the stories that told how the city once was. He knew, that although the ruins and rubbles left behind by the giant's wrath pictured a barren place, it had not always been like this. In his dreams, he knew how the city looked like before it was destroyed. He knew that it was glorious.  
  
And I knew, because he had told me.  
  
The leaves turned from deep dark green into yellow, then orange and red. As I sat by the window, I became more anxious every day. Last time my daddy returned home, the leaves on the oak tree had the same colour.  
  
Then the leaves started to fall. First there were a few, lying scattered on the grass like precious rubies on sheets of green. But when I climbed up on the windowsill one horrible morning, the whole patio was covered under glossy leaves. I jumped off immediately and rushed down the hallway to my mother's room. She was still lying in bed, but she was not sleeping anymore. She looked like a statue, motionless and cold, while the shadows in her room made her skin look grey as if shaded by a veil. Clutching my hands on the soft fabric of her nightgown I've asked her why the leaves on the oak tree were all gone before my daddy had returned. I was scared. I've tried to count the days from the first morning that I've seen a single red leaf lying between the wet cobble stones of our courtyard, but I got confused a couple of days before and I was not sure anymore if this was day 22 or 21. Now all the leaves were gone and there were no more days left to count.  
  
My mother didn't say anything. She just looked at me while she ran her hand through my wild brown locks. She had been very silent for days.  
  
I crawled into her bed and settled myself in the warm and comforting niche that she formed with her soft body. As I pressed my own cold little body close to hers, the scent of her perfume and the rhythmical pounding of her heart calmed me down. She kept stroking my hair, and wrapped her elegant arms around me. Gently, she whispered sweet words into my ears.  
  
"Don't worry now. Everything is going to be all right my little William. Everything is going to be fine."  
  
I asked again when daddy was coming home, but she didn't say anything else. She just kept holding me in her arms silently, while the gathering light coming from the windows in her room started to return some colour to her sad features.  
  
  
  
I blink a couple of times and the dark Victorian bedroom of my mother was no longer there, but the pain of that long past moment lingered. As I finally dare to open my eyes, they are greeted by yours. A sad smile adorns your face, contrasting sharply with that emotionless fire burning in your gaze.  
  
Once again, you've managed to tick me off.  
  
"Oh all right! I thought this would be one huge sadistic joke! Let me spill my guts out to you so you can get all psychological on me! Or maybe you're only after a few laughs. Catch some glimpses of how pathetic I was so you can joke around about it with your buddies over a few pints and some fags."  
  
*I don't…understand*  
  
"Oh come on! You're supposed to be this all-knowing, all-powerful ancient Big Bad Mojo guy and you don't even understand sarcasm? All right then, I give it to you plain and simple. I don't like you poking with your creepy voodoo sticks in my head. So quit it, Capice?"  
  
The smile disappears from your face. Cocking your head you stare at me with an expression as blank as a piece of white paper. God, you are not exactly the brightest mind in the family, are you?  
  
*I don't understand. Why are you angry? These are your memories, not mine.*  
  
"That's exactly bloody well what they are, MY memories! And I DON'T want to remember them! I don't want to sit here and watch reruns from "This was your bloody awful Life William" while you're playing the enthusiastic audience and are getting all excited about it!"  
  
*My dear friend. Is that what's bothering you? You don't like to recollect these memories? You prefer to have them buried deep in the darkest corner of your mind, never to see the light of day?*  
  
Your cold gaze change, and suddenly, the fire in the middle of the circle lit up like a torch. Flames are shooting high up into the sky, blackening the low ceiling of the cave. As I stare into your eyes, the sparkles coming from the now ferocious burning fire taint your yellow orbs red.  
  
Is this, I wonder with some amusement, the closest your lifeless expressions can get to anger?  
  
*You are foolish William! Why are you denying yourself these memories? Don't you see how precious they are? I have seen and experienced what you once have through your recollection. For centuries, I haven't felt so alive.*  
  
"What are you talking about? You mean you are seriously getting off on feeling heartache and misery?" I ask in total disbelieve. Bloody hell, you must be even madder then Dru.  
  
*I've been imprisoned here for so long I've forgotten how it was to walk amongst the mortals. I'm cursed William, I cannot leave like you will as soon as you've found what you've been searching for. I've been denied of everything that demons and humans alike crave most in their existence; the ability to feel, to experience sorrow and fear, hate and love. It seems that I've forgotten and are almost incapable of these trades that define humanity. The Powers That Be have punished me too heavily for my past vanities.*  
  
I remain silent till one thought suddenly crossed my mind. Glory. The Bimbo Hell God from the wrong Dimension. She needed to suck other people's minds because the vixen, although being an all Mighty Demony and all, wasn't capable to sustain her own. Are you something like her? A creature who's incapable of having emotions of its own and needs others to provide it with just that?  
  
Are you asking me to dig up my most painful memories because they can nourish your ridiculous hunger for emotions?  
  
Before I can start screaming at you, swearing at you with the vocabulary of a drunken sailor and calling you out of your bloody fucking mind to even think that I would just sit here quietly and let you drain me senseless without a proper fight, you once again take the words away from me. My lips move feverishly without producing a sound.  
  
While the anger is still twirling in my stomach like a venomenous serpent, you place your hands on my cheeks. They are surprisingly cool, but not cold. In the shimmering glow of the now fading fire, your elegant arms stretching out towards me look like if they are made out of marble, not flesh.  
  
*Don't be angry William. I won't steal your precious memories away from you. I just need you to share. You are so foolish my friend. You say that you don't want them because they hurt too much but as they are threatened to be taken away from you, you cannot part from them. Is this how humans are nowadays? So uncertain about what they are feeling?*  
  
I feel the anger slip away from me although I'm seriously trying to hold on to it. But your touch, the coolness of your skin against mine, it drives away the rage of the demon inside of me and clouds my mind with a sense of serenity.  
  
* Show me more William. Don't be afraid of these memories or what heartache they may bring back to you. You have once experienced these feelings, and they have shaped you. They have made you who you are.*  
  
* They are an everlasting part of you.*  
  
* They are as immortal as you are.*  
  
  
  
TBC 


	3. Bad Blood

1 Riddles  
  
Summary: Tired of his feelings for the Slayer, Spike ventures to Africa to seek help from a ancient demon, who forces him to take a trip down to memory lane. Feeding on the emotions Spike's memories evoke, the demon grows slowly stronger. As the story unfolds, we get to know the man behind the Bloody Awful poet before he gets reborn into darkness.  
  
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy are the creators of the Buffy universe and Spike. Please stop using my pretty Spike as a bloody punching bag!  
  
Spoilers: end S6.  
  
Rating: R, bad language, violence.  
  
Note: based on spoilers - Spike goes to Africa to get his chip out, and probably doesn't return till next season. Just wanted to tell the tale of what happened to him in sunny Africa. Story told from his pov so it could be a bit confusing.  
  
By Richard Bachman  
  
Dedicated to all the Williams who are desperately trying to hold on to their Slayers.  
  
  
  
2 Part 3; Bad Blood  
  
There were three suitcases standing in the hallway near the stairs.  
  
I sneaked up to the railing. The coldness of the marble froze my bare feet. Still, I didn't want to get back into my warm comfy bed. Standing on the tip of my toes, I was able to take a peek into the drawingroom downstairs.  
  
My mommy was still up although the old grandfather's clock had sounded twelve times already and my nanny had put me to bed quite a while ago. She would be very crossed with me if she found out that I was still up. She didn't like it when I was roaming through the big mason with its many stairs and thresholds after dark. I could fall and hurt myself. But I was going to be careful, watching every step as I go. She needn't to be worried.  
  
I just wanted to know if the carriage that had stopped in front of our house and had woken me from my slumber had brought my daddy home.  
  
She was talking to someone. I could hear the voice of a man, unfamiliar and loud speaking to her. Perhaps the stranger was the driver and my daddy was with him in the room right now, sitting next to my mommy and comforting her with sweet words while drying her tears. He would apologize for being away for so long and make her smile again by running his fingers over her tearstained cheeks.  
  
My heart was pounding so loudly that I was afraid that they could hear me. My daddy wouldn't approve of me getting out of bed this late at night, but I really needed to see him, I just couldn't wait till the next morning.  
  
As quiet as possible, I descended the stairs while clinging my little hand around the dark oaken railing so tightly that my knuckles showed white. The white marble steps were hardly distinguishable in the dark, and I had to be extra cautious not to fall.  
  
By the time I was halfway down, the stranger's incoherent mumbling had changed into understandable words and sentences. Although I could still only catch small fragments of their conversation, I froze for a moment in the hope to hear my daddy's voice.  
  
"--- The local authority have been as shocked and appalled as we are Mrs Byron. The disappearance of a respected member of the Royal British Archaeology Society in a well-governed region like Campania is absolutely unacceptable and I can assure you that ---"  
  
" I - I don't understand. Who would do such a horrible thing? Robbing a body from its coffin? Can't they even allow the dead to rest in peace?"  
  
"--- The Italians sent the police departments of Naples and Sorrento on the case. As soon as they find anything, William's body or the bastards who have taken it, they would let us know. I know this must be hard for you Lily, but we must keep up our hopes ---"  
  
My stomach twisted into a cold notch as I heard that second voice coming from the room, but it was not the familiarity that struck me with fright. I knew the man to whom that voice belonged very well. He was kind and gentle and a great friend to my father. It was the grimness of his voice and the message that I could not comprehend that frightened me. Silently, I slipped down the last few steps and hid myself behind the heavy lion statue that decorated the entrance to our staircase.  
  
From the place where I was hiding, I could clearly hear that mommy crying.  
  
"Lily, please. I don't want to see you go through this again."  
  
"What do you expect, that I would be beyond myself out of gratitude for bringing me this God awful news? You promised to bring him home to me Henry! You promised me!"  
  
"Lily…I --- I…"  
  
"Now there Mrs Byron" The other man spoke in an almost snappy manor, "there is no need to blame this on anyone. The British Museum had taken care of every penny that had to be paid to get the remains of your husband shipped back to England as quickly as possible. We've arranged the funeral so you don't have to put your mind to it and we are currently trying to raise a trust fund for you and little William."  
  
"And we should be really be grateful for that…"  
  
My mommy's voice was sharp and hateful, but also drowning in pain.  
  
"Exactly. Um, I mean, no. Mrs Byron. What I attempted to say is that we have truly tried our best to soften the grief of William's unfortunate death for his family. Forgive me for saying this but we do understand what you and your son are going through. William Byron was a most dedicated and brilliant archaeologist, a good colleague and a good man. We will all, miss him terribly."  
  
There was a long, awkward silence. Shivering of a sudden cold that had slowly crept into my bones, I walked towards the faint light that departed from the badly lit room. Barely trying to hide my presence any longer, I reached the threshold and just stood there in the middle of the dooropening, a small boy dressed in his oversized nightgown with a face as pale as bed linen. His eyes were asking questions that his mouth didn't dare to ask.  
  
My mommy tried to wipe her tears away. She was a strong and proud woman, not fond of showing her grief in front of others.  
  
"The funny thing is," and she smiled bitterly at them as she spoke, "The funny thing is that I don't want to go through all this grief and misery myself. But what do you gentlemen expect from me? Two month ago you informed me that my husband was dead. That he was killed in an unfortunate accident that happened at the excavation site. I was so struck with grief that I had fallen ill for weeks. Then, somehow, I managed to pick up the pieces of my heavy heart to at least try to go on with living. Everyday I lit candles in our church for him and kept myself strong for my son while I myself went through hell. And now, after weeks of waiting for you people to bring him home to me you invite yourself into my house in the middle of the night and tell me that his remains are stolen? How dare you to expect from me to be able to handle my grief properly now I've nothing left of him to mourn!"  
  
She was fighting her tears, but showed none as she raised her chin high and looked firmly at the two men in her company. The older pompous man who had been speaking to her so confidently met her eyes and lowered his own hastily towards the carpet, visibly uncomfortable with the moment. Uncle Henry remained silent, and watched my mommy with guilt in his eyes, as though he felt responsible for all the bad things that had happened to his best friend and his sister.  
  
"Oh God. William?"  
  
I turned and looked into my mommy's eyes.  
  
"William. How long have you been standing there?"  
  
Her voice didn't sound angry, still I was afraid to say anything to her.  
  
"William, answer me. How long have you been standing there listening?"  
  
She walked towards me and grabbed me by my arms. Her large brown eyes were rimmed with running black lines.  
  
"Why did you get out of your bed? I told you that you have to stay in your room when the candles in the corridors are out. Why do you have to be so naughty? Do you want to get yourself hurt? Is that what you want?"  
  
Her grip on my arms became tighter and she shook my cold senseless body like a girl shaking her rag baby doll. Her fingers were hurting me as they dug deep into my skin.  
  
"Mommy, no!"  
  
"Why do you have to be such a disobedient boy? Can't you just listen to me for once? Do you want to get yourself killed?!! Do you want to get yourself killed just like your father?!!"  
  
"Mommy, You're hurting me!"  
  
"Lily! Lily let go of William! You're brushing him! You're brushing him!!!"  
  
Uncle Henry pushed mommy aside and rushed over to me. I had tears in my eyes as he gently lifted the sleeves and checked my upper arms, which were paralysed by a fiery stinging pain as if they were set on fire. Beneath the skin, patches of red the size of pennies appeared.  
  
Mommy was standing behind uncle Henry. She held her hand in front of her mouth. Her features were frozen by fear.  
  
"Oh my God, what have I done? What have I done to him!"  
  
"Don't worry Lily, It's not too serious. There is some bleeding underneath the skin, but they are small. Don't panic."  
  
"I could have killed him! I could have killed my own son. He's bleeding because of me."  
  
"Don't start blaming yourself now. Let us take care of William first. Like I said, it's nothing too serious this time. I promise that he's going to be fine Lily."  
  
He turned to his horrified colleague and asked him to send for a doctor. As he left the room in a hurry, uncle Henry told me to lie down with my arms stretched beside me on the carpet. He rolled up my sleeves and watched over me while he tried to reassure both mommy and me.  
  
"How are you tiger? Better now?"  
  
I nodded hesitatingly. Turning my head slightly, I could see the patches of crimson spread over my arm like a drop of red ink in a glass of water. The pain was diffusing till it was no more but a dull ache that pounded in the same rhythm of my heart.  
  
I tried to swallow but my mouth stayed painfully dry.  
  
"Is mommy still mad at me?"  
  
"Course not. Don't be silly. She is feeling very bad about hurting you but she didn't do this on purpose."  
  
"Mommy?"  
  
There was the sound of the fabric of her dress shifting as she kneeled beside me. I was alarmed to see her face, the hurt in her eyes made me feel guilty for causing it to her.  
  
"I'm sorry luv. Mommy didn't want to hurt you. I'm so sorry."  
  
"Mommy, I know what happened to daddy."  
  
She blinked her eyes, fighting her tears.  
  
With her hand she gently stroke my cheeks.  
  
"Hush my luv. Don't think about daddy now. Mommy needs you to stay right here."  
  
" Right here by my side."  
  
  
  
TBC 


	4. Chasing Dreams

1 Riddles  
  
Summary: Tired of his feelings for the Slayer, Spike ventures to Africa to seek help from a ancient demon, who forces him to take a trip down to memory lane. Feeding on the emotions Spike's memories evoke, the demon grows slowly stronger. As the story unfolds, we get to know the man behind the Bloody Awful poet before he gets reborn into darkness.  
  
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy are the creators of the Buffy universe and Spike. Please stop using my pretty Spike as a bloody punching bag!  
  
Spoilers: end S6.  
  
Rating: R, bad language, violence.  
  
Note: based on spoilers - Spike goes to Africa to get his chip out, and probably doesn't return till next season. Just wanted to tell the tale of what happened to him in sunny Africa. Story told from his pov so it can be a bit confusing.  
  
By Richard Bachman  
  
Dedicated to all the Williams who are trying their best to get a break in life.  
  
  
  
2 Part 4; Chasing Dreams  
  
London --- May 1875 ---  
  
Carriages, horses, trees and houses were passing by quickly, gliding past my vision like a blur.  
  
My heart was racing, pounding rigorously while pumping hot blood through my body, flushing my cheeks crimson. The noise that it made was only exceeded by my heavy respiration as I struggled for air to supply to my heavily abused muscles.  
  
Bloody hell, if I fell off this machine right now, I would certainly bleed to death on the streets.  
  
Still, it was a great invention. It was much faster then the conventional horse carriages or walking, and it happened that I was really in a hurry right now.  
  
With one hand steadying the steer, I managed to free the other hand to sound the horn a couple of times to warn the pedestrians walking in front of me to get out of my way. It was hard to get on or leap off the 5 feet high bicycle, and if I slowed down too much there was that ever present danger of losing my balance with the heavy bags that I was carrying. The gentleman and the lady who had been strolling leisurely on the bridge crossing the Thames were annoyed at my rude interception and he shouted after me.  
  
"Youngman! These devil machines are not supposed to be ridden on the sidewalk! What in Gods name are you thinking! You scared the souls out of my wife and I!"  
  
"I'm sorry Sir." I shouted back over my shoulders and steered my penny farthing down Wellington street into the direction of Regent's park. "But I can't drive this thing on the main road. My glasses tend to slide right off face with all the juddering."  
  
Not that the sidewalk was that much better, but at least the road here was paved with tiles instead of cobblestones and you didn't get the impression of being heavily molested by some drunken sailor trying to stick a whole bicycle seat right up your ass.  
  
"Youth nowadays!" The woman complained. "Always in hurry What ever happened to the good old days when everybody still took the time to travel?"  
  
Sweat was already gushing down my temples, soaking my shirt and staining my jacket when I finally turn my vessel round the last corner of the winding path through the park and reached the secluded back entrance of the British museum. I tossed the leather bags off my shoulders and with a carefully practiced leap, I jumped off and landed just in front of the lime stone stairs. Grabbing my luggage together, I placed my bicycle against the wall, knowing very well that I shouldn't leave it here for thieves to get their hands on, but there was no time for me to store it somewhere properly. I just have to let it stand here and pray to our dear Lord that it would still be here when I return from my little six months trip.  
  
I entered the west wing and rushed down the corridors in a most awkward part running part walking kind of way. The younger students were staring at me as though they were looking at a madman who had lost his right mind together with all of his good manners. A gentleman never runs, especially within the confines of a well established and with dusty traditions smouldered place like the British Museum. Just as I was thinking that the youngsters could all go to hell with their annoying glances, A company of ladies passed by and as they first stared, then started to giggle and whisper behind their flittering fans I could feel my cheeks flushing.  
  
"Pardon me, my good ladies. Just happens to be in great hurry you see." I apologized most uncomfortably.  
  
"So we see Mr Byron. You look very flushed indeed. Let me guess, your carriage broke down and you had to walk all the way to the museum?"  
  
"N-No. No Ms Kingston, I'm just late. For a VERY important meeting that is."  
  
I was mentally kicking myself for even caring about how she thought about me. Why did I bother every time to explain myself to this group of upper class vixens? Her approval was completely unimportant right now.  
  
"Ms Kingston, I'm sorry but I really do have to part from your good company. Mr Bannister is waiting for me."  
  
"Oh you have a meeting with Mr Banister! I see! Thank God Mr Byron! I thought by the look of your appearance and your behaviour that there might be a fire in the building or something as dreadful. But it's just Mr Banister you say?"  
  
"Y-Yes j-just him. No fire or anything."  
  
I smiled clumsily and was totally humiliated. If there were somewhere cracks in the walls large enough to fit me through with my vanishing ego I would have gladly disappeared out of their sights.  
  
Ms Kingston and company started to laugh.  
  
Stumbling over my own words, I managed to part from this pack of social hyenas while I constantly kept apologizing for my existence. I turned left a corridor too early just to get away from them, and urged myself to walk instead of running for the last few steps down to my uncle Henry's office.  
  
When I arrived there, he was still occupied with packing his equipment into his trusted worn out back sack. I sighed out of relief and knocked on the opened door. Not that he would leave without saying properly goodbye to me of course. But then, I didn't come here just to say goodbye.  
  
"William!" Uncle Henry placed the little pick-axe back in the carefully spread out collection on his table. "I wanted to drop by your office at the library as soon as I was finished packing, but it seems that you're even more anxious to see me go then your Aunt Hillary! Come in my boy!"  
  
I stepped into the chaotic and pleasantly jam-packed room and closed the door behind me, while uncle Henry came over and gave me a big hug.  
  
"This is going to be the day my dear boy! I'm going to trade these mouldy walls for dustier, more interesting destinations! Bloody hell! I've been sitting home for the last 12 months just waiting for my spinal injury to heal. I was so bored that I've picked up knitting from your aunt. Terrible waste of time if you ask me."  
  
Uncle Henry gave me a gentle smile. If you could ignore the wrinkles and the residing hairline of his silvery locks that testified this age and concentrate on the mischievous glimmering of his eyes, he could truly be mistaken for someone even younger then I was.  
  
The old man was still so full of life's spirit.  
  
"But all the suffering is over starting from today! We are going back to Italy!" He picked up an ancient looking brush and blew between the hairs. Coughing happily as his lungs got a good portion of museum dust, he stared back at me with a slight air of puzzlement, not quite understanding why I wasn't joining him in his contagious enthusiasms.  
  
"William, sit down my boy! Don't just stand there, I won't be ready packing anytime soon and Jonathan and me are only leaving for central station around noon. Your legs will be very tired by the time you have to walk us outside and help carrying my luggage."  
  
I smiled and dropped the bags I was carrying on the floor. They fell with a heavy thump, surprising my uncle.  
  
"Say tiger, what did you put in those bags of yours? Books from the museum library? You better be careful with those! Most of them are ancient since they are running out of money to maintain the collection."  
  
I settled myself in the dark leather chair that was facing the window and my uncle's desk, and tried to look as confident and at ease as possible, trying to remember the sentences of my little speech that I had practiced over and over again that morning before I came to see him.  
  
"They are not books uncle. Well, at least not all of them."  
  
"Oh, but that sounded rather heavy. What's in there then? A Bon voyage gift for your dear old uncle perhaps?" he laughed.  
  
I swallowed hard before I dare to start.  
  
"There are digging equipments in those bags. And detailed maps of the Campania region."  
  
As I looked at my uncle's startled face, I immediately became fully aware that he had forgotten what he had promised to me. As was expected. But I wasn't going to let this hold me back. Just like my uncle I've waited too long for this opportunity to just let it pass me by without a proper strike.  
  
Henry looked at me, not quiet knowing what to say, but trying anyway to persuade me to stay here in London. It didn't matter. I didn't care what he would tell me but I was leaving for Italy this afternoon for sure. I had thought out every argument, every possible way he would try to sway me off my plans and I've managed to think of a strong rational answer against every single one of them. Uncle Henry was not going to outsmart me this time.  
  
Uncle Henry remained silent for a long moment, then shook his head and asked "William, what do you think you are going to do with those?"  
  
I rolled my eyes in annoyance as I realized that I really didn't know how to reply to him on this one. Troubled, I opened my mouth, hoping that my mind would clear and that somehow one of those well-practiced sentences of mine would roll out by accident, but instead of the responsible young adult that I wanted to be in front of my uncle's wary eyes, I sounded much more like a needy little brat.  
  
"I want to go to Italy with you and finally do some fieldwork uncle Henry. That's what these tools are for. You know, I brought these when I was twelve ever since you told me that one day I would be allowed to come with you to see Pompeii, Naples, Rome. You promised me the world uncle but so far you haven't exactly kept your word. "  
  
"William, I -"  
  
"Oh no! Oooh no! You're not going to talk me out of this, again. I thought about it long and hard this time, and I'm well prepared. I've managed to get a grant for the work I'm going to do in Pompei, so you don't have to worry about my finances. I'm in good physical condition to travel since I've been using the penny farthing to come to work every single day and I've learned to swim last summer. And-and also, I'm somehow no longer allergic to scrimps, so there! You really can't turn me down this time uncle!  
  
"Have you talked to your mother about this William? I mean, does Lily know that you're leaving?"  
  
I gasped for air. He got me there.  
  
"Well, Yes she knows. I guess."  
  
My uncle gave me a confused look. Can't blame him for raising an eyebrow at that crystal clear answer of mine.  
  
"You guess that she knows?"  
  
"Well, I didn't exactly tell here what I was up to. But I left a letter on the vanity in her bedroom, so I suppose…"  
  
"William! Don't tell me you were planning to leave your old mother in London all by herself with only a scribble from you to let her know that her only son is somewhere safe! How could you do such an awful egoistic thing?"  
  
"I-I don't want, I mean I didn't want to leave like this. Honest uncle Henry. The very last thing I want is to hurt her and see her in tears. But you know how she is. She would never let me go. If it was up to her I would stay here in London wasting my days away in the British library, categorizing rows of books nobody ever reads and shifting bloody papers on my desk all day. That's not the reason why I went to study archaeology!"  
  
"You don't need to do fieldwork to be a good scientist William. You can learn a lot by doing theoretical research. Getting your hands in the dirt is only one way of digging out the past."  
  
"Yes, but it is the most exciting way, isn't it? And I want to be a part of it. I'm sick of sitting here all day watching the mould grow over the exposition pieces. I'm sick of only reading about those things my eyes yearn to see or my hands crave to tough. There is a whole world outside these dark and dank rooms that is waiting to be explored and all I have and want to do is get out there and bloody well start digging."  
  
My cheeks were flushed, not out of embarrassment this time but out of anger. How dare this man tell me what to do with my life? How dare he keep me away from my dreams while he could afford to fully indulge into his own?  
  
Why is life so bloody unfair?  
  
My uncle reached out to me and tried to put a hand on my shoulder to calm me down, but I pushed him away. I didn't want his bloody sympathy if he was going to shatter all my hopes again.  
  
"William, please listen to me. You know I love you and your mother dearly, and I would do anything if possible to make you both the happiest people on earth, but you can't come to Italy with me. Do you understand?"  
  
Somehow I managed to hold back the tears that were stinging behind my eyes.  
  
Uncle lowered his gaze and squeezed his nose bridge.  
  
"Oh dear God, this is hard. William, I didn't tell you this because I didn't have the heart to do so in the past. But ---"  
  
"You have the heart to tell me now?"  
  
"My dear boy, you do understand that after so many years you'll have to face the facts! There's no possible way that you can do archaeological fieldwork, however much I would love to let you I simply can't take the risk of getting you injured on the job. It's far too dangerous considering your condition."  
  
"My condition."  
  
My hands were trembling. Sorrow and frustration were fighting their way through my soul, but were overshadowed by the throbbing anger that clawed its way to the surface.  
  
So at the end, it was the same old freaking song.  
  
They were still afraid that my Haemophilia would get me killed.  
  
"What the bloody hell do you know about my condition uncle Henry?!" I snapped, my voice full of hostility. "You haven't been around much, not with your frequent trips to Africa and southern Europe and all. You know if you've never intended to let me join your team, why the hell did you keep telling me those sodding fairytale stories? Oh, no William, you 're much too young and too ill, but someday --- someday the curse of youth and your sodding blood condition will be lifted and your dear old uncle Henry will take you to the places that you've dreamed of ever since you've been a child! I believed your words uncle! I believed that, if I just tried hard enough and long enough I will eventually get there --- and now it turns out that all your precious promises have only been a bunch of convenient lies?!!"  
  
"It was for your own good son. Just as turning you down now is for your own good.  
  
I'm sorry William."  
  
"Yeah, You're sorry. Poor William. Believed every word I said. The stupid idiot! The absolute FOOL!"  
  
I was trembling now all over my body. Tears that were held back so cautiously started to fall as my anger ebbed away and left me with cold numbing pain as the shards of my broken dream cut my heart into pieces. So this was it then. The long awaited and much dreaded final answer to all of my questions. I would never see the sunset on my father's forgotten cities with my own eyes.  
  
My uncle continued to talk to me, trying to bring me to my senses with his rational argumentation. How my blood illness could become a serious issue when I became heavily injured in a country such as Italy where the medical care was badly organized and primitive. How much he loved my mother and me and how he could never forgive himself if anything terrible would happen to us.  
  
For the first time in my life, I heard his explanations stripped away from all the lies till all that there was left was the naked, ugly truth.  
  
A very painful truth.  
  
I let his words slide down my consciousness like heavy rain, wary no longer of their meaning. Dazed and hurt, I kept my eyes from meeting with his, for I knew that whenever I looked into those eyes, I would remember the promises that they once held.  
  
It was not until we heard my cousin Jonathan knocking at the door that I somehow returned to reality and managed to excuse myself.  
  
"William."  
  
Already on my way out, I gazed over my shoulders hesitatingly, not daring to expect much out of this last call.  
  
"Would you still be here when I and Jonathan leave for central station? I mean, I do want to say goodbye to you, properly. If you still want it of course. "  
  
There was so much guilt and grief in his voice that I couldn't get it over my heart to tell him that I really couldn't stand seeing him any longer. Not with all those false hopes he had given me all these years.  
  
Not now he had destroyed everything I'd ever believed in.  
  
"I will be here. See you around eleven uncle. You too Jonathan."  
  
I nodded with my lips pulled into a wavering smile as my cousin entered the room wearing a radiant grin on his face. In his arms he held a big pile of maps and journals, ready to be shipped in boxes and be taken with them to Italy.  
  
"You really should help my dad with his luggage." He teased benevolently. "You should see the steamer trunks full of books and paperwork my old man is taken with him on the trip. I tell you, our entire study room is cleared out."  
  
I forced myself to smile at my cousin's joke and left their company in silence. Back at my office in the British library, I sank down on the floor as soon as I shut the door behind me. I sat there in my dank and dark room, with my legs pulled close to my chest and my hands folded over my face to block out everything around me, to shut down that god awful hurting inside.  
  
I didn't get up till the whole morning had slipped by unnoticed and it was already far past noon.  
  
  
  
TBC 


	5. Strange Encounters

Riddles  
  
Summary: Tired of his feelings for the Slayer, Spike ventures to Africa to seek help from a ancient demon, who forces him to take a trip down to memory lane. Feeding on the emotions Spike's memories evoke, the demon grows slowly stronger. As the story unfolds, we get to know the man behind the Bloody Awful poet before he gets reborn into darkness. Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy are the creators of the Buffy universe and Spike. I am nothing compared to them, nothing! Spoilers: end S6. Rating: G Horror/Drama  
  
Thanks: To that lady in the video-store who advised me to rent Rose Red, I absolutely loved it and it had inspired me to continue this story. I've been stuck for a while after the show caught on with my writing and gave Spike a soul, but I'm back on it again, and am intending to finish this.  
  
  
  
Part 5: Strange Encounters  
  
  
  
Part 1.  
  
London --- August 1876 ---  
  
Sometimes I wonder how it could be that time seemed to pass by so quickly in here.  
  
I was sitting at the large mahogany desk in my father's office, which was located on the ground floor in the old west wing of the archaeology department. This part of the museum was not open to the public, and even the archaeological society didn't came here much often anymore ever since they have moved the entire faculty to the brand new building at Great Russel street. The grim hallways were dusty, the windows draped with thick layers of cobwebs and most of the offices were abandoned, used as extra storage space to pile up the museum's pieces of junk furniture or files which were too old to be useful but were still to new to be discarded. My father's old working space would also have been subjected to this dreadful fate, if it wasn't for my good uncle Henry's intervention. He pulled a few strings at the board and managed to secure the room for his favourite nephew, to be used as it was pleased. When I was younger, I often came here to study, or read, or just sit here for a few hours to roam through my father's belongings. My father had been a field-archaeologist all his life, travelling around to globe to the most desolated places, finding and bringing pieces of forgotten history back home to England with him. Although he was no longer here, the many crates and boxes that he had left behind in the museum basement, which had been brought up here by the staff for my convenience, were still reminding me of what the man had accomplished in his short thirty years of being able to live his dream undisturbed. There were numerous of small stone statues, from Egypt, Greece, or Italy, symbolising Gods or creatures of mythology. There were crates filled to the rim with broken pottery, some of them carefully mended together to form larger shards in which the patterns with fading colours were still visible. And then there were pieces of baked clay tabloids in which nail shaped markings were carved by the old Babylonians. All these treasures, too insignificant for the museum to claim as their own, but which had once meant something to my father and thus, meant everything in the world to me, were neatly wrapped in layers of brittle yellowing newspapers and carefully stored away in the containers in which they had been shipped to London from their faraway homelands. There were a couple more remarkable pieces that I had left unwrapped and displayed rather fondly on the shelves; a 1800 year old white marble sculpture of Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, as they were nursed by a wolverine, and a 500 BC dated wooden carving of Osiris, which I had placed next to the Victorian snow globe that had become one of my dearest possessions. Over the years, I've gathered a good collection of for the library outdated books and maps as well, and had them stored in the three tall bookcases towering to the ceiling and which highest shelves could only be reached by using a chair. Gradually, I had transformed my father's old den into my own favourite hide out, a place where I could lost myself in worlds that were beyond my reach, while being surrounded by objects that invoked my beloved father's memory.  
  
The time must had been well after ten o'clock in the evening, as I put my book on Roman religions aside, determined to finish the chapter on the Osiris cult tomorrow evening. I could tell that it was that late. Looking through the window in the office and catching the view across the museum's small garden, I noticed that the lights in the exposition hall in the opposite building were all put out, indicating that the night watchman had inspected it and had locked it down for the night.  
  
I stretched lazily, raising my arms far above my head and leaned back into my chair. It would be better to get back home before midnight. I was renting a six rooms apartment with a front porch that I shared with three different tenants and Misses Odom from downstairs always complained that I woke her up when I ascended the stairs, no matter how hard of hearing the old woman herself seemed to be. She got up before dawn every morning and the first thing she did is feeding her poultries in such a very loud and exasperating way, that I was easily woken from my sleep. I asked her numerous of times to be quieter when occupying herself with her morning activities, but of no prevail. The old woman seemed to be deaf when it suited her more convenience. London was full of people just like her, indifferent to other man's problems, but making sure that they themselves were to be at the receiving end of profitable deals every time. I guess that was also one of the reasons why old misses Odom was never married, but had acquired a good fortune from her family to maintain a reasonably luxurious lifestyle.  
  
Staring at couple of moths dancing in the small circle of light cast by my table gasoline lamp, I sighed deeply, as my mind strayed off and started to worry about of what was expected of me tomorrow when the dreadful Sir Flinch and company were coming to visit the special Pompei exposition. I was asked to give them a grand tour by my employer, Mister "supervisor of the Roman collection" Whitaker, and I was better to make sure not to disappoint them since Sir Flinch had donated a large sum of money that was enough to benefit the entire department. I for one knew that the man had absolutely no interest in archaeology at all, let alone ancient Roman history. Sir Flinch was well known all over town to be a dandy gent with a stack of old family money that seemed to be as everlasting as the amount of fish in the seas, which allowed him to fully indulge in his favourite pastimes; which was taking part in fox hunts, attending decadent parties, and courting beautiful women, not necessarily in that particular order. However, to keep up his appearance in his high social circles, the man actually had to do something worthwhile with the good fortune that was given him occasionally, that's why he had financed a significant part of the shipping costs to get the exposition pieces transferred from Italy to England. Giving the more privileged, but still common citizens of London an opportunity to marble at these ancient artefacts and learn of ancient Roman history, was indeed a donation fit to polish his crude status as a philanthropist, enough to silence the tongues of the gossiping elite I suppose. I could have rejoiced this opportunity, being absolutely excited about the prospect of hosting such an amazing exposition, if it wasn't for the slight downside that yours truly here had to put together a tour that had to be exciting enough to keep a totally indifferent man interested.  
  
I had to put so much effort in this assignment that at the end of a three days study, my head was buzzing with undigested knowledge and my spine felt as if it was pulling on my neck with all the forces of gravity.  
  
I sank my head between my arms resting on the table, my eyes and mind tired of the reading. I closed my eyes and in a moment of unintended feebleness allowed myself to drift off into a dark sea of total nothingness, leaving a chaotic whirlwind of knowledge and facts behind at the shores.  
  
I think I must have fallen asleep, or at least been close to slumbering, when a noise of tumbling boxes woke me up.  
  
First, I thought there was someone down the corridor, perhaps a colleague working late, trying to find something that had thrown out by mistake in the storage next door. I cleared my throat.  
  
"um, hello. Is someone out there?"  
  
There was no response, only a scuffling sound of something heavy being dragged over the floor.  
  
Suddenly, a strange feeling came over me. It prickled the flesh on my arms and straightened the hair at the back of my neck. Ridiculing myself for my own ungrounded cowardliness, I repeated the question.  
  
"Is someone out there? Please answer me!"  
  
I waited, listening to that strange scraping that seemed only to be getting worse and worse. My heart jumped right out of my chest as something was knocked over by whoever was out there and the sharp cluttering of breaking glass cut through the silence. A round and hollow object fell loudly to the floor and spun around a couple of times before it stopped.  
  
Then, there were no more sounds.  
  
Slowly, I rose out of my chair, careful not to disrupt the silence, as if that could keep me safe from harm. Perhaps there were thieves in the building, scavenging for objects of value to sell on the black market. Perhaps it was just one very large and very clever rat.  
  
Either way, it seemed wise to be careful and take some precautions before opening the door and venturing outside.  
  
Nervously, I went through the piles of paper, searching for any object sharp enough to protect myself with. I found my father's silver letter opener. Heading for the door while I held the improvised weapon aloft, a sudden draft swept into the room, carrying cool air and an unfamiliar smell that made my stomach heave. Instead of the warm scent of dust and old books, there was this damp odour of decay, of wet mould and rotting organic substances. A smell you would expect when you entered a crypt or a morgue.  
  
Someone, or at least something as tall as a man, walked by, casting a dark shadow over the frosted glass panel that was set into the office door.  
  
I blinked my eyes, curious and scared to death at the same time. Pacing closer towards the exit, my mind played cruel tricks on me and presented possible scenarios of crazed throat slitting lunatics waiting outside. Keeping quiet in the dark, waiting for me to stick my head out.  
  
As my hand grabbed the cool steel of the handle, I needed a moment to compose myself.  
  
I still could go back to my desk and pretend as if nothing had happened. Hide behind a thick volume of Homer and pretend to be reading. Try to shut down my sense of hearing and smell while praying to the Lord to make dawn come early.  
  
But the problem was that I would most likely drive myself insane with fear.  
  
It's probably nothing. A large noisy rat combined with an overactive imagination. I really should stop reading Edgar Allen Poe novels.  
  
Bracing my feet while taking a deep breath, I pulled open the door and looked around the corner.  
  
I gasped in surprise, as ice cold air penetrated my lungs and made my breath turn into wisps of cloud, dancing in front of my face. Then the stench hit me, a thick sickening smell of flesh decomposing. My body launched forward, and I couldn't stop myself from dry heaving.  
  
From out of the corner of my eyes, I could see a vague human like form crouched down at the far end of the corridor. I turned my head to look at it, though every instinct in my body warned me not to do so. The creature I saw was smaller then a full grown man, but definitely larger then a rat, and it was standing motionless, sniffing the air like a huge hungry dog. Suddenly, as if it had eyes on its back, or could feel by instinct that it was being watched, it turned its head slowly around, and then looked right into my eyes.  
  
Its face was hideous and deformed. A human skull wrapped in dried brown skin with dark hollow sockets, harbouring eyes that gleamed with malice. Its unhinged jaw was filled with rows and rows of glistering shark-like teeth.  
  
I couldn't help myself from screaming like a madman.  
  
The last thing that I saw of this horrifying evil was that it was dashing toward me down the dark corridor, part drifting like a ghost, part crawling like a beast.  
  
I went right back inside, shut the door and turned the lock. I pushed as many heavy crates in front of it as I could manage with my muscles turning limp, then crawled under my father's desk, pulled my knees against my chest like a scared little boy and covered my ears.  
  
The creature was scraping its nails over the glass panel, and it was so close to the door that I could have seen it attacking the wood through the blurry frosted glass.  
  
I choose I better not to if I wanted to keep my sanity and squeezed my eyes shut.  
  
Oh dear Lord in heaven! This isn't real! - this isn't happening - this isn't real - this isn't happening - this isn't real - this isn't real - please don't let this be real.  
  
I stayed there in my father's sanctuary, drooling against the mahogany legs while begging and crying and rocking myself forth and back till the terrible scratching sounds outside finally died out and all that was left was a deafening silence.  
  
It was the longest night in my entire existence, and I remember that I was crying out of joy when dawn finally came and chased the shadows away.  
  
  
  
Part 2  
  
I didn't lose my mind. You might bloody suspect I had if you could have seen me the following morning, or rather the pitiful wee bit what was left of me. I looked as pale as a ghost, dead tired after a long night deprived from sleep or peace, and was hardly able to speak. I could have stayed there hiding till the entire day was over and the deadly night had closed in on me again, if I had not picked up the sounds of a rattling handcar, voices carrying on a cockney accented conversation and loud colourful swearing down the now dreaded corridor. The museum caretakers had collected junk from the different departments and were bringing it to the deserted west wing for long time storage. I was so relieved to hear human voices that my eyes stung again with tears.  
  
Hesitatingly, I came out of my hiding place. My body was deadened and my mind was empty, as if the terrifying experience had drilled a hole into my skull and had drained me of all of my knowledge. I sank into my chair. Ran my hands through my locks and removed my spectacles, so I could cover my face and therefore secure myself in my own private comforting darkness.  
  
I sat like that for perhaps, ten, fifteen minutes, before a knock on the door startled me. Unknowingly, I bit on my lower lip to prevent myself from screaming out of panic.  
  
"Mister Byron? Are you in there?"  
  
I opened my mouth, but somehow I was horrified to speak up.  
  
"Mister Byron! Are you all right? Can you hear us?"  
  
"Y-Yes I'm here. I'm right in here."  
  
I heard the juggling of keys, someone tried to unlock the door.  
  
"Hey! What are you doing out there?"  
  
"I'm trying to get in sir."  
  
"No! No don't do that! I'm right in the middle of something here. I'm studying!"  
  
"Mister Byron?" The sound of a lock after which the handle turned and the door opened for less then an inch before it was jammed by the barricade that I had so hastily put up.  
  
"Mister Byron, what in the name of God is going on there? Why won't it open?"  
  
"Um, I'm afraid I have blocked the entrance. Wait, don't force it open. Let me remove the crates."  
  
With legs still feeble and shaking with each step, I managed to stride to the door and pushed the wooden containers out of the way. The door swung open and two men entered, one of them I recognized as Pete Stephen, a large boned man with a demanding presence. He was the supervising caretaker of the entire west wing, often seen with a warm blush over his cheeks and a nose as red as a raspberry, while his hot breath smelled of alcohol. I honestly pray that I would never become like him, for the obvious abuse of strong liquor had turned him into an addict, a shadow of a man, whose job he could only maintain because he hired a hardworking and most loyal staff. Both men gazed at me, no doubt studying my almost translucent tan and the dark half moon rims under my eyes. Pete's mouth sank open.  
  
"Sir, what on earth happened to you?"  
  
I smiled nervously, although I didn't have the slightest notion why I smiled. Perhaps I wanted to put the caretakers at ease, they seemed so shaken by my appearance. Perhaps I was still too upset by my eerie encounter to think and react properly.  
  
Perhaps I was indeed scared out of my mind.  
  
"Seriously Sir. You look like as if you've seen a ghost."  
  
I almost felt giddy enough to burst into laughter. Funny you should mention it. I did saw something last night that could past for a ghost. But I dismissed the thought of telling them instantly. These turn of events were better to be kept to myself. At the moment I was still convinced that what had happened to me was real, that the hideous nightmare creature had indeed stalked outside of my study during the hours of darkness and had threatened to kill me. But for how long would this continue to appear real? I was a man of reason due to my academic education, but what I had experienced last night was far too unbelievable, far too odd for logic or science to explain. Already, with the raising sun and the increasing light flooding into the room, had I started to doubt the authenticity of my strange encounter. I didn't need to make a fool out of myself when I eventually decided to dismiss this phenomenon as nothing more but a frightening dream.  
  
These men standing before me on the other hand were still in need of an explanation for my peculiar behaviour.  
  
"Why have you been dragging those crates in front of the door Sir? Why did you lock yourself in?"  
  
"As I said, I was studying." I explained to them with an unsteady voice. "I was given a rather important assignment, and therefore was in desperate need of some peace and quiet. So I decided to seclude myself in my father's study to be able to fully dedicate myself to my readings."  
  
"You were Sir?" Pete squinted his eyes in suspicion, still gazing at me as if I was not quite the young mister Byron he knew.  
  
"Most definitely. I'm terribly sorry for causing any distress, and I must thank you for your concern, but there's nothing wrong with me except for perhaps some lack of sleep and a bit of anxiety for the task ahead that might show right now on my face."  
  
"Aye. You look indeed tired. Perhaps you should go home and take a rest. No man can read that much in one night and still be fresh and vigilant as an early morning bird." Pete tipped his hat and gestured to his companion to leave, indicating that they were satisfied with the excuse my white little lies had given them. "I'm terribly sorry Sir for the crude intrusion, but I heard noises and I figured I better go see what's going on. This place has been burgled very recently and mister Whitaker has asked me to keep an eye open. We were worried that you might be in trouble."  
  
I gave the broad man a reassuring smile.  
  
"I do appreciate your efforts."  
  
They finally left. Pete was just asking me if he should lock the door for me, when I suddenly realized that I had a very important appointment to attend to in the early morning. Inquiring about the time, I became aware that I had less then 2 minutes to meet up with the museum's special guests in the grand central hall at the public entrance, all the way at the other side of the grand building. Jumping at my desk like a crazed lunatic, I gathered all the notes that I had written for the tour and stuffed them into my pockets. Eerie encounter or not, I still had to deliver my knowledge to my revered audience or I was certain to be out of a job.  
  
Pete observed my frantic activities with a judging eye, but was wise enough to keep his comments to himself.  
  
I almost tripped over the threshold, rushing out the office in great hurry. Pete shut the door and told me to rush on for he will lock up the place for me, as my eyes unintentionally wandered over the exterior of the wooden door. What I saw there froze my legs on the spot and sent icy shivers down my spine.  
  
Pete's companion noticed the change of expression on my face. Explaining to me that they had seen it before they knew that I was inside my father's office, he added that they had initially suspected that a couple of young crooks had tried to force open my door using a crowbar, attempting a robbery. However, he didn't sound entirely convinced of his own theory.  
  
The strange dents in the door's framework didn't look like as if they had been made by a man crafted tool.  
  
They looked like frightening deep cuts, made by the claws of a savage beast.  
  
  
  
TBC 


End file.
